


Like Water

by Oparu



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Episode: s01e15 Yes Men, mentions of MayWard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 22:53:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1835188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oparu/pseuds/Oparu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil comes to patch her up, but even he can't keep her heart from melting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Water

**Author's Note:**

> unbetaed smut written for ddagent's prompt: "Maybe something after ‘Yes Men’? You know, Melinda’s ended things with Ward and she’s a little bashed up from the fight". 
> 
> They're in a hotel somewhere while the Bus gets cleaned up. Ignoring certain Tahiti revelations for smut. 
> 
> Thanks ddagent!

When he sets down the bucket of ice, she sticks the bottle into it. 

"Not why I brought it," Phil says, shaking his head. 

May shrugs and even that motion makes her wince. Being thrown across the Bus by an Asgardian and then having to fight Ward made a mess of her back, even through her vest. Phil knows, because he always watches her when she's trying to be tough. She's fine. He knows that, but he turned up anyway with a first aid kit and a bucket of ice. 

She doesn't want company but she'll never get him to leave until he trusts she's okay. She's not really sure what okay looks like after a God decided you were in her way. Then there's Ward and she's not talking about Ward with Phil.

She pulls her hair over her shoulder, then sighs when he hands her a tie. It's going to be one of those evenings. She reaches back to put her hair up but hisses because her shoulder really hurts when she moves her arm that way. 

"I've got it," he says. Taking the tie, he pulls her hair up into a ponytail, then neatly wraps it around itself to keep it out of the way. 

"Thanks."

They both know the sooner she lets him start, the sooner she'll feel better and he'll leave her alone. He thinks she licks her wounds, like a tiger, but he doesn't understand how vulnerable it is to bleed. Actually, maybe he does now, after Loki.

"Damn Asgardians," she mutters. She starts taking off her vest but again, her right shoulder flashes hot agony and he stops her. 

"I know."

"Except Sif," she adds. 

"She's a good soldier."

"A good person," she finishes. Everyone deserves to be more than their title. 

"Yeah. I can see why she gets along with Thor."

She smirks and he shakes his head. 

"Maybe he'll come next time," Phil says, teasing. "You can go a few rounds."

"Maybe not," she says, trying not to groan. He's gentle with her arm as he helps her out of her vest. 

"It's still in the socket," he says. "Barely." His fingers run around the rotator cuff, then check her collarbone. "It's going to hurt tomorrow."

"Because it's just peachy now," she mutters. It's just one injury among many. Her head's pounding a little much for the whiskey, but it's not a concussion. 

"How are your ribs?"

"Fine," she winces again. She can't just admit that they hurt, that takes all the fun out of it. 

"Great." Phil studies her face, gently touching her lip just beneath where it's swelled. He takes one piece of ice and holds it to her lip, gently. "Doesn't the whiskey sting?"

"Only the first couple sips," she says. 

Letting him numb her lip, she watches him smile when she gives in. He always looks after her. Ever since her first few real dust ups at the Academy, he's patched her up. It's their thing. His stitches are neater than hers and he's never shied away from snapping her joints back in. 

"Might want another mouthful or two, you need to take off your shirt."

"Is that the best you can do?" she asks. Grabbing the hem of her undershirt, she pulls it up. He takes it from her halfway, careful to stretch the cloth instead of bending her arm too far. 

"It's always worked before," he teases. He shakes tiny pieces of glass out of her shirt and drops it on the floor. He'll need her tanktop off as well because the nasty abraisions that cover her ribs are deep. Some still ooze blood where the glass got into her clothes. They didn't hurt, not really, but now that everything's all right, they sting. 

She pulls the whiskey out of the bucket of ice and takes a gulp. Passing it over, Melinda smirks. 

"I'm going to have to take off my bra," she explains. 

He just raises an eyebrow and drinks. "Are you saying I need to fortify my resolve?"

She starts to shrug, again, but that hurts so she nods. "Maybe I'm trying to get you drunk."

"Looking for a rebound?" he teases. 

It's not harsh. If anyone else said it, it would sting, but he knows what she and Ward were. He's seen her go through that before. They talk about it when she needs to and leave it alone when she doesn't. Sometimes she just needs to forget that bodies are more than vessels for pain. Other soldiers are good for that. They get it. 

He's not a soldier. That doesn't make him weak. In most ways, she thinks he's stronger than she. He still smiles after his ressurection. He tried to find love with that cellist in Portland. She fucks men in love with other women and tells herself it doesn't matter. Ward shouldn't have hurt. He should never had gotten through, but she's weak. No one talks of the warrior with a heart of water. How it splashes and spills over the edges, leaving everything wet and soft. 

"No."

"I'm sorry," he says it so gently that she reaches for his cheek. 

"I'm still wound up."

"I know." He passes the bottle back without judgement but she shakes her head. 

"I don't think that'll help. It hasn't taken the edge off yet."

He paints that healing cream over a long, vicious bruise on her chest. She snaps off her bra, letting it fall away so he can continue. She's the one half-naked and a little bit tipsy, but he's the one who blushes.

"May, I--"

"It's all right. I'll take care of it when you're done."

"Will it work?" he asks, his smile returning. 

"It helps."

Admirably, he focuses on her injuries, ignoring her breasts. "It's not the same when it's just you, is it?" 

"No," she answers. 

"What if you didn't have to be alone?" he asks, closing up the healing cream and checking his work. 

"Are you offering?"

"If I was?"

He's still in his button-up shirt, and she knows there's nothing beneath it but his skin and she wants him more than she wants to hate Ward for betraying her. Lorelei didn't know that Ward wasn't the one she wanted either. She couldn't have known how deep things ran beneath the ice, because she never took Phil. That might have broken her. Ward hurt. Phil would--

"Are you sure?" she asks, stroking his hands. 

"No." 

She kisses his cheek and her lip protests but she ignores it. He tastes ever so gently like sweat. 

"I wouldn't," she reminds him.

"I'm not that fragile, May."

"I know," she says. Nodding, she strokes his chest, remembering the scars. "You're tough."

"Says the woman covered in bruises."

"It doesn't take strength to take a hit. That's stupidity."

"Or stubbornness."

"You have that." She sighs and smiles. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For making my bruises hurt less."

He stands, taking that as a dismissal, but she grabs his hand. "Phil."

He waits.

"Ending things with Ward didn't hurt me."

"You seem upset."

"Not about him."

"About what? Something Lorelei said?"

"You know how you used to say that someday, when I melted, you'd be here?" 

He nods, sitting back down on the bed. "Always."

"Ice is easier," she complains. "It's solid. Steady. When your heart is ice, you don't doubt."

"You've never been ice, May. Not really."

"It hurts," she says, finally. He's always been so patient. "Not here, or here" she says, touching her bruised eye and the gash on her chest. "Here," she finishes, with her hand on her heart. "I didn't love Ward. He's kind, thoughtful, dedicated...but that's not why this hurts."

He grabs the bottle and takes a long swig. "Oh?"

He knows. He has to know because he's always been able to read her like a book. 

"Without the ice, it's just water, and I feel like I'm trying to hold it all in but it slips through my fingers." 

His forehead rests against hers and he sighs this time. "Then don't."

"I have to hold it together. It's all I have."

"Don't, May."

"I can't--"

And he kisses her, because both of them know what she's going to say if she keeps going and they're not ready. They can't, not now, not when there are rules and Ian Quinn and Asgardians.

His tongue enters her mouth and she groans in pleasure instead of pain. She rushes down the buttons of his shirt, flicking them open and reaching for his trousers. His belt must be in his room, so it's quick work to reach down into his shorts.

She's had a growing ache in between her thighs since before he walked in because her adrenaline's still up and sex burns off anger nearly as well as a fight. Yet she's liquid, not fire, when he touches her. The heat of his erection through his shorts only melts her further. She slips off the chair and he grabs her, tugging down her trousers off her hips. He's still gentle, but she forgets how much strength in his hands. 

His fingers slide beneath the fabric of her underwear and he rolls one over the wet ache of her clit. She gasps and nearly bites his lip because she didn't realise how much she wanted his touch. She lets his trousers fall, tugging his boxers and they part just long enough to strip. Her shoulder still screams and she stops, waiting for him to help.

He grins at that, kissing his way carefully around her cuts to rest his mouth on her stomach. She's a mess of bruises so he pulls her down on top of him. It'll hurt least, but she almost doesn't care. This is what will heal her. 

She straddles him and he teases her with the promise of a finger within. 

"Please," she begs, leaning down to kiss him. "I want you."

He complies, slipping one finger in just deep enough to make her moan because it's not enough. He thrusts it up, curling it in, then pulls it out to run circles over her clit. She bends down over his chest, raking her fingers across his skin. He uses two fingers this time, but the heat of his erection burns her thigh and she wants that.

Grabbing his arms, she pins him to the bed. "I want you, Phil."

His eyes widen. She rolls her hips over his penis, promising the heat of them together will be so much better than the ache of wanting. Holding his hands with one of hers, she reaches down and guides him in. She's so wet that he slides deep and now he groans, surprised.

She rocks and he pants, her breath comes faster. He frees his hands and holds her hips, letting her chose a speed. She pulls up, changing the angle and then lets him slide deep. The combination of the stretch of him, the softness of his hiss of pleasure and the way his eyes never leave hers makes her realise how dangerous it is to have a liquid heart. 

Her eyes sting. He thrusts up into her, meeting her, and her body boils towards orgasm. Her eyes disagree. Tears well, then roll down her face and they fall on his nose and his chin. He flips her, switching their positions so gently that her shoulder only stings instead of screaming. He strokes the tears off her face, and kisses her while he thrusts. She comes long before him, shuddering and gasping, then clinging to him because she'll be swept away otherwise. 

She murmurs his name like a death rattle and he shivers before he fills her. Heat wells within her, like a hot spring, and there's no ice left. She's weak and still, like a pond. Phil covers her like the fog in the morning, keeping her safe. 

He smoothes her tears away, then, ever practical, uses his shorts to clean them both before tossing them back to the floor. He holds her, letting her tears mix with the sweat of his chest. He never asks why she's crying, and while she lies there, wrapped up in him, they melt together. 

Which is what she feared, because you can never separate two rivers. While she was ice, he flowed around her and she was safe beneath. Now there's no beginning, no ending, just water. 

He rubs an ice cube softly across her blackening eye and smiles. "You're melting it. You can't be ice."

"Not anymore."

He licks water from her cheek, then kisses her. "Maybe we can hold it together." His fingers wrap around hers and her heart still twists in her chest, as wild as a whirlpool. 

He starts to get up, but she holds him and cuddles back around him. There's healing cream all over the sheets and him, but she'll heal. She always does. 

'Together means you stay."


End file.
